smoke. When it thinned, it left behind the spicy aroma of cloves.
They stood in the middle of a pit. A crumbling stone structure surrounded them, loosely resembling a miniature version of the Roman Colosseum. Several wrought iron candelabras floated above, winking against the sky’s impenetrable darkness. The light was just enough to illuminate the first few rows of seats elevated around the pit; Lilac squinted closer and gasped as Garin stiffened next to her: dozens of faeries, dazzling as ever, dressed in their silk and jeweled togas. Lilac shivered uncontrollably beneath their stares of unabashed reproach. Since the creatures were so elusive, she never imagined they’d existed in such numbers.
An explosive snarl from their right pulled her attention, simultaneously rousing a similar sound from Garin. She must’ve missed it in the commotion—Bastion, teeth bared, struggled against a third soldier. By the way his red eyes flitted scathingly between them, it was clear he did not know any more about it than Garin did—and, for whatever reason, probably felt his brother and Lilac were to blame for his unexpected capture.
Straight ahead of them sat a throne made of robust vines and what must’ve been thousands of sprigs of Baby’s Breath. Perched upon it was another faerie. Though the soldiers that had apprehended them were stout and built, his legs were long like Lilac’s, except, not in the lankily clumsy way. He sighed and uncrossed them, only to cross them again on the opposite side.
His glorious robe glinted from the ochre beads sewn into it, while fox fur brimmed the tall neckline. The faerie’s slight frame did nothing to detract from the presence of power emanating from him. His fingers remained clasped together as the weight of his gaze dragged across Garin and rested upon Lilac. Then he beamed, exposing his rows of fangs.
“Finally, we meet. Laurent’s wily protégé.. And, in addition, his little pet,” The faerie unclasped his fingers to motion flamboyantly at the cylindrical expanse of stone surrounding them. “Welcome to Cinderfell.”
Cinderfell? She’d never heard of it before. Lilac’s insides knotted with dread.
“Why have you brought us here?” Garin’s echoing voice wavered despite his attempted stoicism.
Lilac glanced sideways at him, realizing it was the first time he had spoken the Darkling Tongue in front of her. Addressing Kestrel now, the hesitance in Garin’s voice was unnerving. This was a creature who’d murdered two of the duke’s guards without blinking and told jokes while trying to kill Sinclair.
Here, he was on the verge of hysteria.
“Now, now, Gerald,” the faerie on the throne murmured.
Although he addressed Garin, he stared at Lilac, whose face climbed with color. She was suddenly aware of the crusted blood on her throat.
The faerie paused, then frowned. “It is Gerald, isn’t it?”
“It’s Garin.”
“Ah, yes. Garin. My apologies,” he said unimportantly, ignoring the mutinous expression on the vampire’s face. “You see, Garin, I’ve held the pleasure of meeting the late Laurent Beaulieu. We’ve had few conversations over tea, a splendid specimen indeed—my condolences to you both,” he said, nodding to Bastion. “However, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the honor of meeting you or your brother in the flesh.”
While Bastion seemed bent on destroying the faerie with his glare of loathing, Garin’s eyes merely narrowed at the faerie’s casual mention of their sire.
“With all due respect, I don’t consider the term pleasure so synonymous with anything involving your kind’s affairs.”
In contrast to his wariness when the Fae soldiers had first appeared, Garin stood with his fingers curled and muscles tensed, like a cornered wolf ready to spring. His unexpected response only drew more amusement from the bejeweled onlookers above; Lilac shrank into Garin’s shadow as the crowd above tittered and hissed.
“Where are we, Kestrel?” he demanded.
Kestrel was fiddling with the fur on his collar, but upon hearing his name, he leisurely looked up. He stood and began to pace in front of his throne, the black and ochre material scintillating like molten amber.
“Neither here nor there,” he replied airily, giving a nonchalant shrug.
The response—a vague truth meant to skirt around Kestrel’s inability to lie—only kindled Garin’s bristling anger. Perhaps it was what the faerie leader wanted. A palpable energy radiated from every fiber of his being. Lilac stepped back and away from him, but Garin automatically mirrored her move, stepping aside to place himself between her, Bastion, and the faerie.
“The tree—that blue fire. Was it a portal?” Garin asked behind his simmering rage.
A twist of unease knotted in Lilac’s throat. The way his even baritone raked against her skin